Mirror Flower, Water Moon
by seiyuna
Summary: Kuroro gets another chance at life when Kurapika spares him from execution. — Royalty AU.


**Chapter 1**

* * *

Nightfall comes sooner with the changing season. The abandoned house they maintain is dark now and Kuroro lights a few candles, the glow gentle enough for Pakunoda's eyes. She turns towards his direction and when he sinks down to sit by her bed, she breathes deeply.

"It's late." Pakunoda's voice is strained, but even so, she worries for him, faults herself for the illness that keeps him awake watching over her. As she finds respite from the darkness, Kuroro watches how the flickering candlelight lends a softness to her high cheekbones and aquiline nose—gives a warmth to her skin when her complexion grows more sallow with each passing day. "You should sleep soon."

"Don't worry about me." Kuroro reaches over the bed to pull the blanket tighter around her, and there is a brief exchange of heat as his hand brushes over her skin. Despite the thick layers that swathe her, no warmth is enough to thaw the chill of her skin.

"Thank you," Pakunoda answers with a smile, but he knows that it is only temporary.

Her next breath breaks off into a cough, cracked and raw. She doubles over, her entire body shaking with the fit, and all he can do is remain by her bedside, desperate to help but only able to guide water to her lips. When the cough recedes, blood has stained the sheets.

"I'm sorry," she says, when her apology is unnecessary—when her words are a cue that he hears too often. It pains him when she thinks of herself as a burden, as he will only inherit her illness if he continues to remain by her side. She brings her sleeve to wipe at her mouth and her exhaustion finally compels her to lie down and rest.

Kuroro watches her closely, makes sure that she sleeps before he does. He waits for when the sound of her choking on her own breath eases into something steadier. Every night before he sleeps and every morning after he wakes, he checks her pulse.

* * *

Kuroro closes the door behind him with a quiet sound, wary of bringing the winter chill into the room. A basket of old rice and dried vegetables sits in the cradle of his arms—when resources are scarce, he does his best to prepare a simple meal from the stolen ingredients. It is the least he can do, when Pakunoda has pledged to share his struggles as if they were siblings by blood.

But she will not take her meal.

Pakunoda's eyes are distant as she stares at a book in her lap, opened up to the tenth page—the most she has learned to read from his guidance. There has never been a need for her to learn and she has doubted her ability to—but Kuroro has been more than willing to open up a world that she's never had access to. These days, she spends more time going through the books in his possession than she ever has before.

Her porridge remains untouched by the bedside, cooling in the bowl. It's not because she is so engrossed in the story that she is unwilling. Kuroro cannot fathom why, when the weariness in the hollow of her cheeks and the dark blemishes under her eyes speak of the famine they endure. "You need to eat."

Pakunoda shakes her head, her blond hair now limp and dishevelled. Not too long ago, when grooming empowered her every morning, her hair fell thick and healthy over her cheeks. She had been made of piercing gazes, sharp words and even sharper nails—a stone that was cut and polished into a stunning jewel.

Kuroro couldn't help but list off his observations within his mind, one after the other, without any emotion behind them. But sometimes, like now, when he sees her quiet stares and trembling hands, his thoughts twist into something more emotional, carving a sense of loss within him.

He doesn't know how soon—if the time will ever come—he'll be able to see her as she used to be.

He doesn't know how to reconcile that she is perishing.

* * *

There must be something that he can do.

If there is one thing Kuroro is good at, it is—

"Thief!"

—running. He's grown too complacent after a few successful heists and the slightest mistake has attracted unnecessary attention.

He weaves through crowds amidst the market district, only a pouch clutched tightly in his hands. A bundle of sweet wormwood—the herbal medication he's heard physicians speak of in passing—only found in the endless shelves of the pharmacy with exorbitant prices and every treatment imaginable. When the illness that plagues Pakunoda is widespread, access to medication is given precedence to nobility. But does this mean the rest of them should die?

His path takes him several blocks away from the site of theft, but no closer to the abandoned construct that serves as their home. A turn into a dim alleyway and he tramples over crates, climbs up a thin ladder to hitch himself up onto the roof. No matter how well he is able to escape his pursuers, the cold wind is difficult even for him, with the way it cuts through the soles of his shoes as he slides down the roof, glides through his clothes and bites at his skin when he moves.

Kuroro lands on the ground without a sound, crouching next to a mound of rubbish he hopes will conceal him, evaluating other escape routes in case it doesn't. He stretches out his legs, dirt and dead leaves over his ankles, and listens.

Soft voices, but no shouts. Muffled footsteps, but those tell him little.

He waits a little longer, to be certain that no one has followed him. When he's ready, he finds himself in one of the nicer areas of the district, where he's less likely to encounter murder and theft during the day.

But even strategy cannot defeat the element of surprise. The strike to the back of his head aches—the pain reaches his skull, spreads to his spine, and swallows him whole. His bones cannot support him. His muscle fibers snap, loose and free. He falls to a bended knee, bloodied.

Darkness eases his mind, numbs his body, and sings in his ears.

He loses himself to darkness.

* * *

Kuroro's return to consciousness comes with the sharp pulse of pain, tearing through him without warning. There is the sensation of being dragged and an ache in the back of his skull that speaks of repeated impact. Beneath him is something cold and rough, decorated cracks akin to a spider's web.

He can't bring himself to move. The way his shirt collar chokes him and the weight settles above him suggests that he's being pressed against the ground by someone.

He's not certain where he is, only that he is secluded from the general public, to be judged at the foot of pristine steps. The fallen petals of plum blossoms surround him and a gentle fragrance lingers in the air. It is unexpected, when what little plants that exist in the district have withered in the winter cold.

What Kuroro does expect is to be further punished and executed, when this is not petty theft, but taking from the nobility themselves. He is ready to die, only if he is able to give the medication to Pakunoda. Despite this, the guard holding him stills and doesn't even spare a second glance.

Quiet footsteps approach them from the steps above. "Let go of him."

Kuroro's head snaps up. A child, buried in the embroideries of a golden and crimson robe, glares at the sight below him.

The guard's grip tightens on him. "But Your Majesty!"

Kuroro's breath catches painfully. His heart starts to pound. He knows this child—the entire nation knows—all of Heaven knows. He is at the mercy of their Emperor—he who is Heaven's descent.

He has always expected someone older, someone oppressive, someone who reflects those who starved. Someone who sits on the throne, uncaring and nonchalant, as hungry mouths devour gruel and empty hands reach greedily for the nearest source of warmth. But he is a child, someone who should still be cared for, and Kuroro can only look on in fascination.

He meets Kuroro's gaze with resolve, as if this is the first time he has fought for something on his own accord. His words are law, his decision is the decree of Heaven, when he regards Kuroro's life as important. "Even I—receive medication when I am ill."

The guard proclaims that it is different, and his words strike him down.

"This man did nothing wrong!"

A breeze stirs through the air then, brushing against their skin and stroking the petals of the plum blossoms. They bloom delicately, defiantly, crimson against white upon sparse branches.

A petal lands on hair that's sun-lightened blond. The hair of their Emperor—Kurapika, he is named but never called—is as golden as the sun that never seems to warm their skin, golden as the riches that remain as dormant decor behind imperial walls. He is so bright, and Kuroro's gaze strips him of his humanity. Instead of Kurapika, he is an otherworldly being, a work of divine creation.

The guard loosens his hold on him as the attendants arrive and usher Kurapika to a ceremony. Kurapika spares him one last glance before turning on his heel, the layers of his robe trailing behind him in a whirlwind of auspicious colors. He is young, he is above them, and his words are truly to be abided.

His words have tethered him.

His words have saved him.

* * *

Notes:

* The title refers to a Chinese proverb that refers to a sight that is beautiful but cannot be touched—such as a flower reflected in the mirror or the moon on the surface of the water.

* Plum blossoms represent resilience and endurance as they bloom even in winter.

What is this fic, I can't even. This is an old, completed fic that I wrote, but never uploaded since it was a tragedy. I am rewriting so that there is a happy ending.

I think this is the first time I wrote a child Kurapika and teenage Kuroro. There will be a time skip before romance occurs, rest assured. You are most likely thinking how can Kurapika rule over an entire empire as a child—your questions should be answered in the next chapters.

I'll update my other fics soon as well.

Please leave a comment! You can also reach out to me on Tumblr at seiyuna if you want to talk about kurokura.


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